


Once Again

by PlatHead



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Betrayal, Developing Relationship, Duelling, Gen, M/M, Planet Serenno (Star Wars), Rating May Change, Self-Doubt, Training, Unhealthy Relationships, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:47:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29336277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlatHead/pseuds/PlatHead
Summary: In the waning days of the Old Republic, two men -- known variously as Darth Tyranus and General Grievous or Count Dooku and Qymaen jai Sheelal -- linger in the empty Castle Serenno, awaiting the arrival of the future. As Dooku ponders the ongoing conflict and his own role within it, he also rushes to increase Grievous's abilities, seeking a way out of the political dead end into which he has maneuvered himself.
Relationships: Dooku | Darth Tyranus/Grievous | Qymaen jai Sheelal
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

“Once again.” said the Count, and their rhythm began. The low hum of lit sabers -- the electric crackle of the duel.  _ One two, one two.  _ The same patterns as always. The Count parried the overhead strokes with ease, then brought his blade down and around to catch his partner’s twin side swipes, low and to the right. Step in, pushing within comfortable range, past the wall of spinning blades on which the other duelist relied, and--

“No.” said the Count, his weapon hovering scarcely an inch from where, once, his apprentice’s collarbone had connected to his neck. He dispelled his blade. “You still make the same mistake. Again. Once again.”

“I have better things to do than spar all day.” growled the cyborg as they took their positions. “This war will not be won by lingering in palaces.” 

_ One two, one two _ , and the Count was within his guard again, just inches from his partner’s mask, one of the few marks which still revealed the Kaleesh Dooku had known. It was hard, this close, not to think of him still as  _ Qymaen _ . Dooku lingered -- and then pulled back. “You are right, of course. Yet this war will not be won at all unless we --  _ you and I  _ can match the Jedi. So, once again.” He lit his saber, and prepared for Grievous’s advance across the ballroom floor.

_ This war will not be won at all _ . The guilt of that burned at Dooku, though he knew in that guilt was the seed of weakness. This war would be won -- by the Sith, if not by the Separatists. But there was no need to tell Qy.. To tell Grievous of that. Perhaps when he was stronger. Perhaps if Ventress was still on the table. Ten thousand contingencies, and all of them hurtling toward the same conclusion.

The grand ballroom of Castle Serenno was once the home of lavish masquerades and vital political ceremonies. Now it sat predominantly empty, as did the rest of the castle. The Count was here so rarely... There was too much to be done. But still, the room rose up, the way it always had, the gilded pillars which climbed the walls an architectural mirror to the flora which grew below them, at the base of the cliffside which the wide windows which ran the length of the hall overlooked. There was a balcony, and the wide doors were open -- the room grew stuff, otherwise. The Count had thrown them open himself, before their sparring began. He preferred to handle small things himself, even if the droid caretakers existed for little other purpose.

The floor was tile, polished -- polished countless times, polished daily, even when he was far away, by the army of droids who did better work than any breathing staff could have hoped. From above -- from high enough up -- the tiles were a beautiful mosaic, a diagram, the long branches of the Serenno family. Dooku knew well enough that he did not appear on that particular tree -- prodigal son, abandoned infant, last scion of the House of Serenno.

Grievous advanced.  _ One two, one two _ . The General had four arms, but he did not use them to full advantage. His slashes brought two blades from either side -- but they were two blades which could easily be blocked with a single parry. This time, the opening was yet clearer -- the Count went on the offensive, bringing the curve of his weapon around Grievous’s defense, an impossible angle for a traditional saber. His partner was forced backwards, and the Count stepped in again. “No. You have four blades. Defend all sides. Prepare for all contingencies.

Qymaen --  _ Grievous _ \-- growled, resheathing his sabers and folding his extra arms away. “I am prepared. We are prepared. And this war has dragged on long enough.” He strode across the empty ballroom, clawed feet clicking on the tile. Dooku followed.

They stood on the balcony, overlooking the cliff of Castle Serenno. Far below, the trees of this world stretched out as an endless blanket, stirring slowly in the breeze. 

They were alone.

“We might have won this war in a month.” growled Qymaen, looking out over Dooku’s homeworld. “But you called for patience. And now the war has stretched into years. We had an overwhelming force on Geonosis -- and you counselled us to wait. Geonosis was a slaughter. Again and again you have counselled  _ caution _ ,  _ hesitation _ . We have seized great victories and yet failed to press the advantage.” Grievous turned, and Dooku came face to face again with the mask -- with Qymaen’s eyes looking out. “ _ Why _ , master? Why will you not permit us to strike with all available force?”

Standing there, with the wind of his home washing over him, Count Dooku nearly confessed. He might have -- for this man whose eyes met his was not Grievous, supreme commander of the Separatist droid army but  _ Qymaen _ , the freedom fighter who Dooku had met so many years ago. But who was responsible for that change? Who had stripped away his body? Who had bombed his ship?  _ Acting on orders _ , Dooku might have said -- but he knew better than that. And some things could not be absolved.

Qymaen did not break eye contact. Qymaen -- and yet also Grievous. For what was the Separatist fight if not an extension of Qymaen’s own war for freedom? The Republic had supported the Yam’rii -- supported the  _ slavers  _ who had come for the Kaleesh. And now Dooku was offering a new system -- a better system, a galaxy without the petty tyranny of republican politics, a system in which power would not be given based on one’s ability to occupy the senate floor. Qymaen -- to the extent that Qymaen still lived and breathed, beneath the trauma, beneath the reconditioning-- was with him. But it was a lie. All power would soon be in the hands of that same senate, unless --

But Dooku did not tell him. Qymaen was not strong enough, not yet. In a week’s time, they would depart Serenno -- and then it might be time to make a change. But for now... Grievous was a talented soldier, but lacked in any sense for the Force. That was a weakness which would need to be accounted for before changes could be made. Until then, it would not be fitting to... grow too attached. Consider Ventress, after all. Nevertheless, Dooku lingered there -- for a moment, on the balcony whipped by the winds of his homework, and the look which he gave Qymaen conveyed more than he would have preferred. They were inches from each other -- Dooku could feel the infernal heat which radiated from the servos in Grievous’s joints -- and for a moment a vision of the future was possible. 

It was an entirely inappropriate moment between the two leaders, wholly unpolitic. It prepared for no contingencies.  _ We will topple him _ , Dooku told himself.  _ Soon _ . He almost believed it, and broke off the moment. 

_ But first...  _ The Count lit his saber and turned back to the ballroom. “Once again.” he called, and the General followed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dooku makes Qymaen an offer, and Grievous responds.

Night on the Planet Serenno fell in three distinct stages. There were none of the in-betweens, the golden purples, the long lingering sunsets. On Serenno the sun was a thick, distinct thing -- a heavy white orb which moved every onwards toward the horizon. Then, for a moment, it was a ball of fire -- which lit the treetops far below the cliffside castle. For ten minutes or less the whole of the great western plain which stretched out from the fortress Serenno would seem to be ablaze -- and then the darkest night.

It was something about the chemical composition of the upper atmosphere. That and the shape of the continent. The castle looked out over a great cliff, and the land below was wide and flat beneath the trees. There was nothing to block the descent of the sun.

They took their dinner in a high chamber, the window of which -- like all the windows on this side of Castle Serenno -- looked out over that high cliff and endless forest. The sun had not yet fallen far enough to light it -- it sat, instead, a ball of hot white wax in the evening sky.

Dooku dined lightly, on sugared fruits and the tongues of Serennian apes, boiled in a local sauce. It was a delicacy, as he had tried to explain, but Grievous had no sense of cuisine. He had little need for food -- no more than a few hundred calories in a month, and even those were delivered by liquid solution through the portocath affixed to his cybernetic throat. _A terrifically efficient machine,_ he had been called once, by a medical officer of the Trade Federation. The man had not survived the negotiations. Qymaen could be touchy at times.

For instance, now. “This is a waste of time.” Grievous was pacing, proving the unfortunate doctor right, and scratching the hardwood floors, no doubt. “We could have been gone a week ago. The armies of the Confederacy are headless without us--”

“All the more reason for them to struggle alone, for the moment.”

“How?” Grievous stopped pacing. Dooku looked up.

“The cause of the Separatists cannot be expected to rise or fall by our hand alone. My dear friend -- We are not casting down the tyranny of the Republic to replace it only with our own dominance. There comes a moment when our allies must win or fail by themselves. Now, sit down.”

Grievous growled, but crossed back over and sat. The table between them was bare -- Dooku’s plate, a pitcher of wine, a glass, and the open surface where Qymaen now folded his arms, leaning forward. “I do not mean to doubt the virtue of our ideals.” he murmured. “Only...”

“I encourage you to rest.” said Dooku. “The republic are tyrants. Soon they will fall.” The lie burned him. “Breath.”

“Mm.” Qymaen shot Dooku a queer look through his mask. The intake of his breath was a rasp. “Are you mocking me?”

“Of course now.” Dooku set down his fork. “There is nothing to mock. As it happens I agree with you. We  _ have  _ been overly indecisive.” He paused. “I am sick of ape’s tongues and candied fruit. I do not linger to enjoy the privileges of my station.”

“Then why?”

Dooku fixed Qymaen with a long look. “To make a decision.” he stood. “Follow me.”

***

A droid would clear the table. Count Dooku did not speak again as he led his apprentice down the long staircases and across the courtyard. He could feel the heat of his presence behind him as they went, the presence of Grievous’s machine-body -- and the rasped breath of Qymaen, as well. After so long, it was almost a comfort to hear the slow rattle, and to know that he was so close.

_ There is a solution _ , he thought, as they walked along the cliff’s edge between the castle and the distant trees below. There was a solution. But Ventress was gone, now, and... and Sidious’s position was only stronger. And there was another element, of course. Dooku had trained Ventress as a parent might train a child. But Qymaen...

The sun was sinking toward the trees. Who’s sunset was that? And tomorrow, who’s sunrise? The grass crunched slightly beneath his boots. No doubt Grievous’s claws were sinking into the rich dirt. Dooku had no childhood memories of this sensation, no nostalgia for days of running barefoot through the planet’s fields. His father had seen to that -- with the assistance, of course, of the Jedi.

Dooku turned to face the cliff, and stopped. He heard Grievous heavy footsteps taking their place beside him. The sun watched impassibly. Dooku watched it back.

Eventually, Grievous coughed quietly. “You mentioned a decision...”

It hung in the air between them.  _ So much hangs in the air between us _ , Dooku thought. But Qymaen did not know that, and could not. It would not be just.

“Yes.” he said finally. “I am making a decision.”

“And what is that decision, if I can ask?”

That was a harder question to answer. “I... I am deciding whether or not to take decisive action.” Dooku turned to his apprentice, looking him closely in the eyes -- the eyes alone which were still flesh. “Tell me, Qymaen, would you die for this cause?”

“Qymaen-?”

“Grievous, then, if you prefer.”

“No -- No, Qymaen is...” The cyborg seemed taken aback. “Qymaen is... better.” He seemed to puff up slightly. “It has been a long time since I was Qymaen. But Qymaen would die for any cause.”

“Indeed.” said Dooku. “But would you live for it?”

Qymaen could not frown, not anymore -- but his eyes narrowed. “I do not think I understand.”

Dooku sighed and turned again to face the sunset. “The war.” he said slowly. “It is... It is unwinnable.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Republic Propaganda. The clones are not worth--”

“The clones are not the issue.” Dooku frowned. “It is a dilemma, in the literal sense. Two options, neither of which are satisfying. Should the Republic win, of course, we are traitors. We are the Separatists, the Confederacy -- We brought war to the galaxy and cost millions their lives.”

“So the Republic must not be permitted to--”

“Should the  _ Separatists  _ win,” Dooku cut Qymaen off. “The galaxy will descend into chaos. You and I -- we are idealists, my friends. We see the utopia we must attain and strive towards it. But can the same be said for Gunray? For the Banking Clan? Too many of our allies will turn on each other in the name of individual  _ profit  _ the moment the Republic has been defeated.”

“Then we will defend ourselves.” growled Qymaen. “We will endure, through the crucible of that chaos and into a future for all.”

Dooku nodded. “Indeed. But we will not be the only players, my -- friend. There is another, waiting to take advantage of the chaos. And his victory will lead to... a greater tyranny, by far, than the Republic’s could ever be.”

Qymaen watched him, unreadable behind his mask.  _ Can I tell him?  _ Dooku wondered.  _ Would it be just?  _ He could not read his apprentice, but it was too late to back down now.

“Who?” asked Qymaen. “The jedi?” His guess was worrisome close to the mark.

“No.” admitted Dooku. “Although you are not far in your guess, my friend.”

Qymaen paused -- the silence a mark, perhaps, of just how much the war had aged Dooku’s once hasty apprentice. “You speak of Sidious.”

“I do.”

“But he--”

“Trained me, as I sought to train Ventress -- and as I have trained you.”

“Lord Sidious  _ serves  _ the Confederacy. You have said--”

“Lord Sidious serves himself, Qymaen. And he will stand with whatever power offers an opportunity for his interests. He is utterly without ideals. He has played our allies -- the two of us, even -- against each other more times than we can count.”

Qymaen was silent. The slow rattle of his breath -- and the wind through the trees far below -- were the only noise on the cliffside.

“What, then?” he asked at last. It took great familiarity to read the shades of tone in Qymaen’s voice.“If the war will play into Sidious’s hands...”

“There is one solution, and one alone. A desperate gamble, and then we might be free.”

Qymaen was silent.

***

Night had fallen on Serenno. The hot orb of the sun had sunk down beyond the horizon. The fire had come, and gone, quickly. Dooku was alone.

He sat in silence in his bed,the soft rustle of his nightwear amplifying every movement, the bedchamber made a choir of whispers. The window had been Dooku had cast Ventress and her assassins through it, but still he felt horribly cold. The wind cut through him.

_ Foolishness _ . It was foolishness to think that Grievous could be made to see the way -- the  _ necessary  _ way -- by any means besides coercion. Hadn’t that been the first lesson Sidious had taught him, long ago? Sympathy is complex. Power is absolute.  _ Foolishness _ .

Dooku shifted as he sat, his meditation once again disrupted by the sound of fabric on fabric. There was a possibility that Grievous had already notified their mutual oppressor. There was a possibility he had gone himself, left Serenno quietly in a personal ship and hastened back to their war, to their doom. Hadn’t Dooku given him the opportunity?

But, no -- Dooku would know if Qymaen had left the planet. He knew he would know. Perhaps a messenger, then, one of the infernal droids -- or even a call. It would be easy enough for Grievous to have betrayed him.

_ Foolishness _ , he thought again.  _ Foolishness to think another way was possible.  _ At the end of all things, hadn’t Sidious been fundamentally right?

The door opened, and Dooku resisted the urge to flinch. He did not open his eyes. Who could -- but, of course. He could  _ feel  _ him.

General Grievous would be shrouded, as ever, in the tatters of his Khaleeshi cloak. His upper arms were folded back -- but that meant nothing. They could each be out, and holding a saber, in a matter of moments.  _ Am I strong enough to defeat him, if he comes at me with backup?  _ The truth of the matter was that Grievous’s form had greatly improved, in even their short time here on Serenno.  _ What a pair we might have made... _

“Count.” The General’s voice was a robotic bark, a twisted sound fed through his plasteel-coated voicebox. He had not yet moved from his place by the door.

Dooku opened his eyes, allowing the force senses to give slowly over to mundane ones.

“Qymaen.” Another desperate gamble. Grievous had never been skilled in hiding his emotions. The flinch was as obvious as the daylight.

“I was in error.” the General said after a moment. “This afternoon.”

“Were you?” Dooku had not left his meditative stance, on the bed. He kept his face a mask.

“Yes.” said Grievous. “I should not have permitted...  _ that  _ name to be used.”

“Mm.” Dooku did not otherwise respond.  _ Now is the moment.  _ He thought.  _ He will draw blades. He knows he cannot match me, not yet -- so reinforcements are on their way. Very well. _ The Count would cut his way out of the keep, if need be, and then settle things with Sidious. One way or another.

But Grievous did not unfold his upper arms, and the sabres remained unlit. He lingered in the doorway.

“Did you need something else?” Dooku closed his eyes.  _ Breath out. Allow the sensations to come to you.  _ Grievous was difficult to read. That alone was unusual.

“I...” growled the cyborg. “Yes.”

Dooku remained silent. Eventually, his apprentice went on.

“I came to tell you...”

Silence.

“I know.”

The words sent an involuntary shiver down Dooku’s spine. So much rode on them. In his half-meditation, it was an almost unbearable weight.  _ What does he know?  _ There were many options. There was one correct answer. 

_ Images of an explosion, viewed from afar. A troop transport erupting into flame. The glee of the Banking Clan, content in their revenge. Dooku looking on. A desperate flight to Geonosis. Doctors, surgeries. The framework of a new body, later to be improved upon.  _

And through it all, Sidious. Whispering.  _ Only one way. One path forward. A necessary recruitment. _ Why should Dooku care for some masked Khaleeshi Khagan? “Why indeed...” He murmured.

“What was that?” asked Grievous, the hesitation clear in his robotic voice.

Dooku opened his eyes, unfolded his legs, and slowly climbed from the bed. His slippers were waiting. He turned to his apprentice. “What do you know?”

“The explosion on the  _ Martyr _ .” Grievous began slowly to cross the room, approaching Dooku.

“Yes?”

“The death of my izvoshra.”  _ Click, click _ . Claws on tile.

“Yes.”

“The victory of the huk.” Grievous stopped, just in front of the count. In the weak light from the open door, Dooku could see the red of his remaining flesh through the open holes in his mask. His breath a deep rattle.  _ The perfect machine,  _ the doctors had said.  _ We will make the perfect machine. _

“Yes?” asked Dooku, looking up -- up, for the first time truly aware of how high Grievous towered over him.  _ Perhaps it will not come to sabres. If he lunged for me...  _ Perhaps the Force would save Dooku, if it came to bladeless combat. Perhaps Dooku would not wish to be saved.

“I know.” said Grievous again. There was a tremor in his voice.  _ Reduced pain centers _ , they had said.  _ Amplified rage. The perfect machine. _

Dooku sank slowly onto the bed. He inclined his head. He could not look at Qymaen’s eyes, nor the shawl of the Khaleesh. He stared at Grievous’s gutsack, at the terrible beauty of his duranium legs.  _ The perfect man. The perfect machine. Grievous and yet Qymaen. _

A hand closed on Dooku’s shoulder. Intense pressure bore down as Grievous leaned in, bringing his mask inches from his master’s face. A tremor went through Dooku’s chest -- matched with another, stranger sensation, a deep feeling of--

_ What a pair we might have made!  _ He waited for the strike.

It took great familiarity to recognize the shades of tone in Grievous’s robotic voice, but Dooku heard each of them now. Fury. Pain. Tenderness.

“A desperate gamble,” growled the General, his grip trembling slightly. “And then we will be free.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! A lot more progress happened in this chapter than I anticipated -- probably just going to be one or two more, to bring things to their end.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Hope y'all enjoyed this. This is the first big of what I'm hoping will be a developing story about the relationship between two of the Confederacy of Independent Systems's greatest leaders in the last days of the Clone Wars. I'm really fascinated by their dynamic, as well as by both of their lifelong arcs from political revolutionaries and idealists into Sith warlords. I love them and they love each other, god damnit
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy, it's my first star wars fic and I'm glad to be here.


End file.
